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What is this vase? What is it for?

            The questions spill from my lips.

My husband does not answer,

instead he hands me the vase and tells me never to open it.

I wait till he leaves, then run my fingers over

the fastened clasp. The jar calls to me,

begs to be opened, my curiosity compelled too.

The lids flings open, my burning fingers satisfied. 

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By Christine

View more poems from Hornsby Girls High School, 2013